


Our wandering kind

by October_rust



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-15 05:06:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2216826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/October_rust/pseuds/October_rust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An attack on a Hydra base, and an unexpected reunion between old friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our wandering kind

It was an ironic twist of fate, Steve thought, that one of the main Hydra bases was hidden here, deep in the Alps.

In a way, it was like walking back straight into a familiar scene from the past.

Shouts, explosions, the crackle of gunshots – he deflected the incoming blow, threw his shield to knock down one of the guards. Natasha took care of the second one, her movements so quick that the man didn't even get the chance to properly aim his weapon at her.

“Cap, Natasha.” Even through the earpiece, the tightness in Sam's voice was unmistakable. Steve glanced up; above in the sky, with snowflakes swirling all around him, Sam was no more than a blurry silhouette. “Watch out, they've got –“

A volley of bullets interrupted the warning; Sam dodged to the left, the powerful wings arching against the freezing wind, then raised his guns and returned fire.

Quickly, Steve swept his gaze over the chaos of the battlefield, over the grey stone walls that towered above it, almost touching the heavy clouds. There was a small terrace carved into the jagged rock of the mountain, the nooks and crannies full of shadows, now obscured even more by the curtain of falling snow, but … He narrowed his eyes.

With some effort, he could make out the long shapes of barrels pointing down at him and the members of his team that were following after him, see the outlines of gunmen adjusting their aim. A trap about to spring.

He opened his mouth, but before he could order his men to fall back, he heard a dry, hollow sound. Almost without a pause, another one followed in its wake. Two. Three. Four. Five. Barely audible among all the noise, yet distinct enough for Steve to recognize them for what they were.

The gunmen on the terrace were going to remain silent now, he realized with a cold certainty.

Apprehension and hope coiled in his chest, as he threw himself back into the fray.

“There's a fucking sniper! Find him! Take him down!”

The officer's voice snapped on the last word, the panic threatening to overcome military discipline. Steve allowed himself a grim smile. This development Hydra had definitely not expected.

The smile slipped off, almost as quickly as it had appeared. Caught off guard, outnumbered and desperate, the enemy was still fighting back, despite the confusion spreading in their ranks. He had to stay focused on the situation, not let that tiny pang of joy and nervous anticipation distract him, if the mission was to end in success. Steve gripped his shield tighter.

One of the guards noticed him, and was charging at Steve, gun at the ready. _Crack_ The man stumbled, took a few wobbly steps, and landed face first in the snow. Soon, a circle of dark red formed around the shattered head.

Steve looked to his right, where Natasha was fighting two Hydra soldiers.

Against her, they both seemed almost laughably clumsy, their punches always missing her by mere inches. Lithe and graceful, she whirled between them, kicking and striking, each of her blows finding weak spots and drawing pained grunts from the men. In a second or so, Steve was sure, she was going to break their necks.

_Or maybe not._

A flicker of red caught Steve's eye; small laser dot was creeping up the back of the skull of the soldier who'd just drawn his fist back, ready to swing at Natasha.

 _Crack._ The fingers trembled, loosening, as the Hydra collapsed in a splatter of blood. _Crack._ Surprise twisted the other soldier's features; he crumbled to the ground, brain and shards of bone spilling through the hole in his temple.

Natasha sidestepped the gory mess. When she approached Steve, and lifted her gaze to his, he could read the same realization he felt reflected there - _He's here._ Calm, assessing, Natasha watched him for a moment, a silent warning in her eyes. _He's here. Don't do anything stupid._

Steve nodded.

A shadow of emotion, sadness mixed with understanding, flitted across her face. Then her features hardened again. “Let's go,” she said at last.

Together, they raced towards the entrance to the underground levels that loomed in the distance.

***

Steve took off his helmet and rubbed at his forehead. Adrenaline was draining away, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness that always descended upon him once the fighting was over. He exhaled slowly, trying to shake the numbness off and force his mind to replay and review the events of the today's operation. So far no casualties among his small task force, thank God. They had captured the base, taken prisoners, and retrieved the data from the labs situated deep beneath the mountains.

Now the only thing left to do was to blow the whole place up.

He wound his way through the dark corridors, debris and shards of glass crunching under his boots. Faint light from a few light bulbs that survived the shooting glinted off scalpels, needles, and the operating tables in the rooms he passed.

Natasha, Sam, and one of the new agents were waiting for him by the solid metal door leading back to the surface.

“All is set up - we've planted the charges,” Natasha reported. “And Agent Adams found something interesting. You might want to take a look at that.”

He turned his attention to the short, dark-haired woman. “What is it?”

Agent Adams hesitated for a brief moment. “There are footprints near the perimeter. One man, heavy combat boots. Didn't bother to cover up his tracks.”

The words sank in, and with them came the familiar stab of hope and longing – he'd felt it as well when Sam had confirmed earlier that the small gun nest up on the rock terrace was indeed cleared, that no one but a sniper with near inhuman precision and skill could have managed that feat.

_He's here ..._

“Sir?”

“Show me the tracks.”

The cold air bit at his cheeks once they stepped outside. The terrain around the base was bustling with activity: his men were securing the confiscated Hydra equipment, and preparing to transport the prisoners to an extraction point a safe distance away from the facility about to be blasted to pieces. All was under control.

The sentries gave him quizzical looks, but didn't ask any questions as Steve and his companions left the base behind.

It took a short trek to reach their destination.

“He came really close, but our guards didn't notice him at all.” Adams shook her head. “Like a ghost.”

In silence, they stared at the ground. Though already blanketed by the fresh layer of snow, the dark imprints of ridged soles were still visible against the whiteness. The trail climbed up the slope, all the way to the outskirts of the forest, to finally disappear between the trees.

Sam exchanged a quick glance with Natasha. His face, partially hidden under the hood of the warm jacket, had an uncharacteristically grim set to it.

“A word, Cap.”

They walked away a few steps, just enough to get out of Adams' earshot.

“This time, he's left you a whole lot of breadcrumbs.” Sam nodded in the direction of the footprints. “We tried for -- how many? Nine months? Prague, Hongkong, New York, and a dozen other places – nothing, not a clue.”

And yeah, that frantic search across countries and continents had unearthed nothing. Oh, they had found abandoned warehouses and small compounds burned to the ground, littered with dead Hydra agents, but that was all. There had been no threads to follow from those points. Sometimes, Steve wondered if he wasn't in fact chasing after some illusion born out of his own grief and memories, destined to always slip through his fingers.

But today …

Today, for the first time since the helicarriers had crashed into Potomac, he had something more substantial to follow than elusive shadows.

_He's here._

“I know what you want to do.” Sam looked at him again. “And I guess I don't have to tell you it's a bad idea.”

“It is. But I'm going to do it anyway.” He held Sam's gaze. “It might be the only chance to bring him back.”

***

The trail cut abruptly in the middle of a small clearing.

Steve, Natasha, and Sam stopped, alert. Behind them, a low rumble of explosion rippled through the night air, signaling that the Hydra base had just been destroyed. Two hours left till the extraction, then.

Soon the noise died away, and the eerie stillness returned. They waited, surveying the surroundings for any flash of movement, any faintest sound.

The strange sense of déjà vu added to the tension. Steve thought about another night, the one from seventy years ago, when he'd disobeyed orders and embarked on a reckless quest, gambling on pure luck to rescue his best friend from Schmidt's hands.

He hadn't given up then, and he wasn't going to back down now.

_Come on, Buck._

As if in answer, the ground shook slightly. A narrow line appeared in the snow, then deepened as the rocks and soil parted to reveal a small chasm. They came closer, peered down. The moon shone strong enough that Steve could see a ladder leading down to what looked like a dimly-illuminated mine shaft.

“Wait here,” he said.

“You really wanna go there without any backup?” Sam raised his brow. “Nah, that's not what we signed up for. Think again, Cap.”

Natasha didn't seem all that surprised by Steve's decision. Still, there was a hint of exasperation in her voice, a gleam of mild reproach in her eyes. “Steve, he's dangerous. You cannot predict his reactions.” She took a breath, and her next words rang cold and distant. “And how do you even know it's not a trap, that he won't kill you?”

A stubborn part of him urged him to argue back. “Because he didn't kill me when had the chance. And today he's had plenty of them, but instead chose to help us.”

“Doesn't mean he's completely free from Hydra's conditioning.” She fixed him with a stare. “Listen to Sam, and take us with you.”

They were both worried about him. The corner of his lips lifted in a sad smile, as he looked from Nat to Sam. Such good friends, always ready to have his back. “If we go together, it's more likely to get ugly. No, I have to take the risk and do this without you.”

Sam sighed. “Fine, you stubborn ass, let's do it your way.”

Natasha narrowed her eyes in exasperation. Steve met her gaze. _Don't do anything stupid … I know. Sorry about that, Nat._

He climbed down the rungs.

The air in the shaft was much colder than on the surface; his breath plumed white, while thin patches of ice glittered on the beam-supported dirt walls.

A secret bunker, right under their noses. And they would never have been able to find it on their own, he had no doubt. Urgency mattered most during this mission, so there hadn't even been time for a proper field recon before the assault on the base.

The tunnel led him to bullet-riddled metal doors. They were trying to slide close, he could see, but the motion sensor was still active and the reinforced panels were bumping instead into a body lying across the threshold.

Empty eyes were trained, unseeing, on the ceiling, the features frozen in horror. Steve pushed past the corpse, careful not to step into the blood oozing from the deep slash on the neck.

The inside of the compound looked small and deserted – just a few short, narrow corridors, with rows of doors on either side. Methodically, he started checking the rooms.

The explanation as to why the place had to be so thoroughly concealed soon became apparent. Food supplies, medical equipment, a whole assortment of various weapons and gear, money as well as gold bars, lists of contacts and addresses – all stacked away so that whatever was left of Hydra,  
once the main base in the Alps fell, could crawl to this safe haven, lick their wounds and began  
regrouping. Cut off one head, two more shall take its place.

Well, not if you remember to burn the heads and purge the wounds with fire, Steve thought. And the new, recovering S.H.I.E.L.D was doing exactly that right now, wiping out every remaining hotbed of disease.

Finally, he reached the last door.

It opened easily like all the previous ones, but, instead of yet another cramped storage vault, he found himself in small living quarters. A sole lamp shone faintly above the table in the center;  
the rest of the room, however, was plunged in darkness.

He strode between bunk beds, straight to the narrow circle of pale light. There was a sniper rifle laid out on the table, and a white parka slung carelessly over the back of a chair.

His pulse kicked up a notch at the sight. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the shadows waver, and felt a shiver of awareness prickle along his spine. He turned his head, strained to catch a better look, and …

The Soldier moved with easy grace, his steps measured and soundless. It was almost hypnotic, the way he seemed to meld into the murkiness of the room as he advanced towards Steve. And even when the short distance had been crossed, even when they stood together in the light, with only three feet or so separating them, some of the darkness still clung to the Soldier.

The Soldier. No, Bucky.

True, the gloom lingered in the blue eyes that were observing Steve, but the gaze was steady, sharp with recognition. Apart from that detail, the rest hadn't changed much: black leather and Kevlar buckled over broad chest, knives and guns strapped to waist and thighs, dark hair long enough to brush the stubbled jaw. The left arm, of course, was another constant, with its smooth silvery plates marred by the red star.

Minutes stretched, and all Steve could do was stare, the things he'd wanted to say for so long frozen on the tip of his tongue. “Thanks,” he managed at last. “For helping us out there, Bucky.”

A smile ghosted over Bucky's lips. “Frontal attack. Really, Steve? No stealth, no clever tricks, just storm the place and hope for the best, eh?”

That attempt at teasing, no matter how feeble, had Steve's throat constrict at how familiar it sounded, how similar to what they used to have in the past. Immediately, he tamped the emotion down, let a small answering grin curve his mouth.

“We tried stealth. Didn't exactly work out as planned.” He shrugged. “Besides, it's not like I have never done this before.”

“Yep, always eager to lead the charge and put your sorry ass in harm's way. How many times did you pull that stunt? Italy, Germany ...” Fondness softened Bucky's words, and then the smile faltered. “And that last one in DC. Almost got yourself killed.” The warmth faded from his eyes. “I almost killed you.”

The look he gave Steve was hard and bleak. _Go on,_ it silently challenged. _Deny it._

“It wasn't your fault.” Steve matched Bucky's haunted gaze with a stern one of his own. “None of it was. Dammit, you were their prisoner, Bucky. What those bastards did to you ...”

At that, something shifted in Bucky's eyes. The shields fell back into place, and the glimpse of raw pain and self-loathing ebbed away, replaced by wry humor. “Were? Now you see, Steve, that's a tricky one.” He tapped his temple. “They messed with my head, and I'm not sure if they're really gone from there.”

Natasha's warnings buzzed in Steve's ears. “What do you mean?”

“I found their documents, read about the procedures they used.” Bucky continued in the same nonchalant manner, as though he was sharing yet another joke with Steve. “Lots of weird jargon, but I understood the most important parts. Every weapon like me usually comes with a switch that makes it easier to handle. A sound, color, picture, gesture – anything can be this trigger. Still don't know what mine is, or if they left one planted in me at all. If they did, though … “ He shrugged.

“Is that why you've stayed away from me? Because of that trigger?” Steve asked. Fear, anger, and sorrow roiled inside him, and his fingers itched to somehow bring Pierce and Zola back to life, just so he could slowly wring their necks. Again and again. And even that wouldn't have been enough for all the suffering they'd inflicted on Bucky, all the endless hours of torture, all the memories and thoughts ripped away, the damage they'd left behind.

“Yes.” Bucky looked away, the muscle in his jaw tensing. “But that's not all. I've got a score to settle.” He swallowed, took a deep breath. “So I track them down, take their stuff ...” He glanced back at Steve, and this time his eyes were cold and intent, so uncomfortably close to the Soldier's icy glare, that Steve almost flinched. Many of the Soldier's targets had probably seen their own death reflected back at them in those eyes. “And make them pay. That's the best part. Ugly shit, but it feels good, Steve.”

Silence fell. It weighed heavy between them, until Steve spoke again. “I want you to come home with me.”

A raised eyebrow. “To you and your pals from S.H.I.E.LD?”

“We're not with S.H.I.E.L.D anymore.” Well, Sam had never been, and it was all Steve's fault for dragging him into the whole mess in the first place. “Sometimes they ask me, Nat, and Sam to help when the mission is difficult or has to be done quickly. That's all.”

“You three work well together. Reminds me of how you were with me and the other guys from our unit.” Another pale, crooked grin tugged at Bucky's mouth. “Anyway, I doubt your new friends would wanna hang out with me. There's this little matter of me trying to kill them, and simple 'I'm sorry' won't make up for that.”

“They understand,” Steve tried to assure. “They told me to be … cautious around you, but they understand, they don't blame you for DC.”

Bucky didn't look entirely convinced. “Might not blame me, yeah, but they are smart not trust me. And you shouldn't either. I ...”

“Don't.” Steve cut. “Just stop it.”

“Steve, you can't be so fucking naive.”

“Naive? No, buddy. You're trying to push me away, but it's not gonna work. Let me help you, please. I know the risk ...”

“Do you, now?” Bucky narrowed his gaze. Two slow steps, the movements full of languid, predatory menace, and he was in Steve's face. _You really wanna play like that, huh, Buck?_ Steve raised his chin, stared right back into the coldly appraising eyes.

That close, the blue of the irises appeared much more vibrant, their pull harder to resist. Still, Steve didn't blink, willed himself to not budge the slightest bit, even as his chest brushed against Bucky's. It was all meant to intimidate, the gradual invading of space a reminder of those two occasions when he and the Soldier had fought, of the flashes and spins of the knife, the lethal way their bodies had clashed.

“Sometimes,” Bucky said quietly, his breath fanning over Steve's skin. “I wake up and I don't remember where I am. Sometimes I dream about hunting people: I watch through the crosshairs as their heads burst open, twist my blade in their guts, break their necks. Military men, mostly, but there are women and children as well – collateral damage, I guess. Sometimes those people have names; sometimes there are just faces. They beg and cry, but I always finish the job.”

He leaned even closer, his lips at Steve's ear, voice falling to a whisper. “But most nights, there is just darkness and ice. I never dream about my mother, Brooklyn, the girls I took out dancing, or you, Steve.”

“It doesn't mean they still control you.” Steve whispered back. “You're not their weapon anymore.”

“Asset. That's what they called me.” Bucky drew back to regard him again, his expression unreadable. “And even if what I suspect isn't true, even if I'm lucky and they didn't fry any triggers into my brain … that thing – the Asset – is still somewhere inside me. It's fused to me like that goddamn arm. I will never be rid of it.”

Always wary of himself, fearing the slumbering beast caged within his mind and body – that's how Bucky came to see himself. Twisted beyond repair.

The admission tore at Steve's heart. He thought about the time he spent with Nat and Sam – lazy evenings, when the three of them got together just to lounge on the couch, eat popcorn and laugh  
at some awful movie. He thought about Peggy – about her hand, fragile and covered with paper-thin skin, but squeezing his with surprising strength; about her eyes, alight with humor and intelligence that even illness couldn't entirely snuff out. Small, normal moments in Steve's life that Bucky obviously thought he had no right to be part of.

“You're not their weapon,” he repeated. “And you're not a monster.”

“No? Still wanna trust me?” A faint whir of shifting plates and gears, and the metal fingers collared the base of his throat. The grip was loose, exerting light pressure – just enough to remind him of the ease with which those fingers could curl into a fist and smash through the concrete. “What if the Asset comes back one day? Decides to finish his mission? What then?”

Steve spoke without hesitation, “Then I will hold you back through it, until he's gone. I'm not gonna leave you.”

Bucky closed his eyes, bowed his head. However, when he straightened, his face was set in hard, unforgiving lines, all the traces of emotion carefully reined in. Wordlessly, he reached with his other hand, tugged at the clasp of Steve's helmet. One firm pull, and it clattered to the floor.

Steve swallowed, but didn't try to grab for his shield, or break free from Bucky's grasp. All the while Bucky studied his reactions, gaze both challenging and flashing with incredulity. _You're really letting me do this to you? C'mon, Steve._

With deliberate slowness, he lowered his hand to his hip, unsheathed the knife. He gave it a little graceful flip, as if to test its weight, and then, in a blur of silver, pressed the blade to Steve's jugular, right above the spot around which the fingers of his metal hand were wrapped.

Adrenaline surged; Steve felt his skin tingle at the chill of naked steel. Still, he didn't recoil, kept his eyes locked with Bucky's. “I told you it's not gonna work.”

In answer, the metal hand tightened, yanked him forward. And, before Steve could even process what was happening, Bucky's lips covered his.

He froze, mind going blank. Distantly, he heard the knife hit the ground with a dull clank; in the next instant, long fingers were cradling his jaw, the thumb sliding over the corner of his mouth in a light caress.

They'd never … Never …

His thoughts were scrambling for an anchor, anything that would make sense of this. It seemed surreal, like a hazy, half-forgotten dream – and he could have easily convinced himself he was hallucinating if not for the rough burn of a stubbled chin against his own, or the wall of solid muscles crushed to him from shoulder to hip.

They'd never ...

Raw, harsh sensations mingled with warmth and softness: the fingertips grazed down his cheek, the touch hesitant, almost reverent. And Bucky's lips …

_Oh._

Jerkily, they brushed over Steve's mouth, retreated, then returned. Yet they didn't venture further; uncertainty and awe were palpable in every halting glide they made, every small quiver that ran through them.

So much gentleness, as if the gossamer threads of a spell surrounding Bucky and Steve could unravel at a merest puff of breath. And, despite how frail this connection was, how laden with vulnerable emotions, it helped to soothe the panic racing through Steve.

They were on an even footing here, both of them equally lost. Yes, it was terrifying, a leap into the unknown, but deep inside he felt a lick of heat, curiosity, and, above else, a profound sense that what they were doing was right. A sense of completion, of something rare and precious unfolding - the things he'd only ever experienced with Peggy.

So he followed that instinct, arched into the embrace. His blood throbbed faster, hot and heavy, and suddenly he wanted to learn more about the shape and texture of Bucky's mouth, to …

He blinked in surprise when the hands that were holding him gave a light shove.

Chest heaving, Bucky stared at him with wide, dazed eyes. “Jesus, Steve. I'm sorry, it's my fault. I ...”

The flash of horror, guilt, and self-disgust proved too much: Steve leaned forward, took Bucky's face in his palms, and silenced the rest of the words with his lips.

It was clumsy and awkward, but hopefully as sincere and tender as what Bucky had offered him. Soon, though, Steve forgot to worry about his lacking skills, because there was a shiver of response, a shuddering exhale as Bucky's lips trembled under his.

When they parted for air, Steve whispered. “I trust you. Always will.”

Bucky's eyes were closed, long lashes dark against flushed skin. “Stubborn fool.”

“Yeah. Takes one to know one.” Steve pressed their foreheads together, combed his fingers through the strands of tangled hair. “Promise me you'll come home with me.”

A soft sigh. “I will.” Bucky cupped the back of Steve's nape, his grip firm and reassuring. “I will. I promise you, Steve.”


End file.
